The Nobodies----

        A poem by one of us, Eduardo Galeano, who stood tall and faced the system with determined defiance, poetry and wit. 

The Nobodies--

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream
of escaping poverty: that one magical day good luck will
suddenly rain down on them- will rain down in buckets. But
good luck doesn't even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter
how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is
tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or
start the new year with a change of brooms.

The nobodies: nobody's children, owners of nothing. The
nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits,
dying through life, screwed every which way.

Who don't speak languages, but dialects.
Who don't have religions, but superstitions.
Who don't create art, but handicrafts.
Who don't have culture, but folklore.
Who are not human beings, but human resources.
Who do not have names, but numbers.
Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the
police blotter of the local paper.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them 

Eduardo Galeano

Visit ann arky's home at https://radicalglasgow.me.uk 

Nobodies.

          When poetry steers the mind, what else can you do but follow.

Fascism: I sometimes fear---

I sometimes fear that
people think that fascism arrives in fancy dress
worn by grotesques and monsters
as played out in endless re-runs of the Nazis.

Fascism arrives as your friend.
It will restore your honour,
make you feel proud,
protect your house,
give you a job,
clean up the neighbourhood,
remind you of how great you once were,
clear out the venal and the corrupt,
remove anything you feel is unlike you---

It doesn’t walk in saying,
“Our programme means militias, mass imprisonments,
transportations, war, and persecution.

Michael Rosen, 2014.

 The Nobodies--

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream
of escaping poverty: that one magical day good luck will
suddenly rain down on them- will rain down in buckets. But
good luck doesn't even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter
how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is
tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or
start the new year with a change of brooms.
The nobodies: nobody's children, owners of nothing. The
nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits,
dying through life, screwed every which way.
Who don't speak languages, but dialects.
Who don't have religions, but superstitions.
Who don't create art, but handicrafts.
Who don't have culture, but folklore.
Who are not human beings, but human resources.
Who do not have names, but numbers.
Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the
police blotter of the local paper.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them

Eduardo Galeano 

In Those Years.

In those years, people will say, we lost track
of the meaning of us, of you
we found ourselves
reduced to I
and the whole thing became
silly, ironic, terrible:
we were trying to live a personal life
and, yes, that was the only life
we could bear witness to

But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged
into our personal weather
They were headed somewhere else but their beaks and pinions drove
along the shore, through the rags of fog
where we stood saying I

Adrienne Rich. Dark Fields Of The Republic.

The Individualist Hymn

Before dying in the mud on the streets
we would imitate Bresci and Ravachol;
anyone who extends a hand to you, bourgeoisie,
is a person unworthy of looking at the sun.

Grinding machines tear the beggars to pieces
and their wives are forever pale and weeping,
The fields remain fallow, the miners buried
and the workers crushed forever by murder.

And to those who don’t give in, open the tombs,
prepare the bombs, sharpen the knife,
action is the ideal!

France, on the watch with the guillotine,
chops off the head of anyone who wants to punish her.
Cowardly Spain strangles with a garrote and murderous
Italy guns down those who aren’t accustomed to trembling.

Hanged in America, throats cut in Africa,
forever tortured at Montjuich in Spain,
but the individualist still knows how to strike
the sorry breed of gentleman thugs.

And to those who don’t give in, open the tombs,
prepare the bombs, sharpen the knife,
action is the ideal!

As long as we are a herd it’s appropriate that there’s
a social gang passing laws;
as long as the sun of anarchy doesn’t shine,
we will always see the slaughtering of the populace.

Be very afraid, coppers, when you hear
the dynamite exploding against the oppressors.
We are enemies of all cops and scoundrels,
And one against all, we will scatter them.

And to those who don’t give in, open the tombs,
prepare the bombs, sharpen the knife,
action is the ideal!

No Copyright. 100% DIY. Feel free to reproduce.

 

Visit ann arky's home at https://radicalglasgow.me.uk

The Nobodies.

        Most of the time we are preparing for, going through, or analysing the results of "an election" somewhere in the world, it's like an epidemic we can't quite cure, and we are told this is democracy.

 

 Myth of Democracy.
      We no longer have a political party system, it is a corporate state. No matter what party you elect and no matter the different and wonderful manifesto promises, after the election it is just as before with perhaps a little plus or minus this way or that. The smile on the face of the new messiah may look more radiant than the last, but the price of bread still goes up. The few over privileged parasites that have control of all the institutions in our society have bought the political parties and are in bed with the military. Big business is all, and war is big business, so we will have war, bloating the coffers of the corporate greed machine until they bleed us all dry. To the corporate world people are dispensable, profit is the name of the game.
       Turning to this or that political party creates the myth of democracy and the results prove that it is no more than a myth, an illusion spun by the media, another institution, which is hardly likely to speak against its master and owner the corporate world.
     If we want a better world where we see to the needs of all our people then we have to break the hold of that corporate beast. Communities have to take control of all those institutions and run them in federation with each other based on sustainability. We have to eliminate the profit motive from all we do, and create for the benefit of all, mutual aid being the key. No matter how you try to shape capitalism, no matter how green you think you can make it, it is unsustainable and will never work for the benefit of all, it is an elitist and exploitative system that works for the privileged few parasites who own those corporations.

Why Wait For History's Verdict?
       It is obvious that when historians come to write about the capitalist era it will be written up as a dreadful failure for humanity. They will be able to write about the fact that at its period of highest development, approximately one third of the world’s population were well fed, one third were hungry and one third were starving. They will be able to detail the misery of those fifteen million children who died of hunger every year. In their learned papers they will catalogue the enormous wealth poured into unbelievable destructive weaponry and they will calculate that in the midst of all that hunger and starvation, the price of one missile could have supplied 100 nutritional meals every day for five years. No doubt their findings will also include that to feed this grotesque beast of privilege and greed it was necessary to pollute and plunder the earth’s resources to the extent of destroying the planet’s ecosystem. Their conclusions will obviously be that it was a cruel, vicious, unjust, hypocritical and unnecessary system inflicted on the population of the planet by a small band of greedy, power hungry, over privileged parasites.
      Why do we have to wait for the historians verdict? We are now aware of the type of system that has been created and the misery that it inflicts on vast swaths of the world’s population. We know that the greatest benefits go to the smallest group, a useless, pampered bunch of parasites. We also know that it is a man made system, not something written in tablets of stone. It is well within our power and our imagination to dismantle this abomination of greed and hypocrisy, and replace it with a system of mutual aid. A system based on free association, voluntary co-operation and sustainability that sees to the needs of all our people, a system freed from the greed driven motif of profit.
      We have the imagination, the ability, and the resources, all we lack is the will.

       I see this poem by Eduardo Galeano as encapsulating the foundations and the structural fibres  of capitalism.

 

The Nobodies

      Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty: that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on them- will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesn’t rain down yesterday, today, tomorrow, or ever. Good luck doesn’t even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.

The nobodies: nobody’s children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way.

Who are not, but could be.

Who don’t speak languages, but dialects.

Who don’t have religions, but superstitions.

Who don’t create art, but handicrafts.

Who don’t have culture, but folklore.

Who are not human beings, but human resources.

Who do not have faces, but arms.

Who do not have names, but numbers.

Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the police blotter of the local paper.

The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them. 

Visit ann arky's home at https://radicalglasgow.me.uk